“Very well, I suppose you’ll have to do,” she said. She gave me a rapid tour of our products and what they were supposed to do. Until now I had thought that cosmetics consisted of cold cream, a brushing of the lips with Natural Rose, and powdering one’s nose with baby powder or those handy papiers poudres. Now I was amazed to see the selection of powders and creams—and the prices too. Some women obviously still had money in this depression.

“If a customer asks you for advice, come to me,” Miss Fairweather said. “You have no experience, remember.”

I murmured humble acquiescence. She moved to the other side of the counter like a ship in full sail. Customers started arriving. I called Miss Fairweather when necessary and I was just feeling that I was getting the hang of it and it wouldn’t be too odious a job after all when a voice said imperiously, “I need a jar of my very special face cream that you always keep hidden away, just for me.”

I looked up and found myself face-to-face with my mother. I’m not sure who was the more horrified.

“Good God, Georgie, what on earth are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Trying to earn an honest living like everybody else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You weren’t raised to be a shopgirl. Now take off that horrible smock at once. It makes you look like a prawn. And let’s go and have some coffee at Fortnum’s.”

She still had that china-doll look that had made her the darling of the London stage, but the eyelashes were definitely too long to be real and there were circles of rouge on both cheeks. Her hair was black this time and she was wearing a pillar box red jacket of obvious Parisian design and a matching jaunty red beret. Around her neck was a silver fox, complete with beady-eyed head. I had to admit that the effect was still stunning.

“Would you please go away,” I hissed at her.

“Don’t tell me to go away,” my mother hissed back. “Is that any way to talk to your mother, who hasn’t seen you in months?”

“Mummy, you’ll get me dismissed. Please just go away.”

“I certainly won’t go away,” my mother said in her clear voice that had charmed audiences in the London theaters before my father snapped her up. “I have come to buy face cream and face cream I shall have.”

A floorwalker appeared miraculously at her side. “Is there some problem, madam?”

“Yes, this young person doesn’t seem to be able or willing to help me,” my mother said, wafting a distressed hand in his direction. “All I need is some face cream. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“Of course not, madam. I’ll have our senior assistant assist you as soon as she is finished with her customer. And you, girl. Fetch a chair and a cup of tea for madam.”

“Very well, sir,” I said. “I was perfectly willing to help madam,”—put emphasis on the word—“but she wasn’t able to tell me the brand of face cream she needed.”